Nightmares (Sort of Sequel)
by Sibyllaa Dixgard
Summary: John had listened, like the good doctor he is, had kept himself together, but the same images kept flashing in front of his eyes over and over again; the gun in his bedside drawer, because he knew no one would even notice if he would've been brave enough. (The story really isn't as sad as this makes it sound)


**Well, I know this isn't really a sequel to my story 'Nightmares' but I almost wrote them in one go, since this idea originated from the other one and so for me they sort of belong to the same universe. This is now the third story from me up here (up anywhere) and maybe you already know that I'm not a native speaker and that I love everyone who leaves a review (and everyone who helps me make my writing better). I still don't own anything other than the ideas for my stories and nobody's offered to pay me for them yet... Anyway, on with the story**

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Sherlock Holmes – the man who can tell you that for the last of Mycroft's birthday celebrations he attended, his brother had three slices of cake and five cups of cocoa and that there were exactly 74 other people on the tube with him last Tuesday – has lost count of how many times he and John have had sex.

He figures that the number must be somewhere between two and three times higher than the duration of their relationship. And about a third of the orgasms they've had together they've shared at night and in their bed. Most of those involved penetration and not once did he have his cock up John's arse.

Which was 'all fine' by him, because he loved being taken by John; John fucking him gave him a sense of being loved, being taken care of. And oh god did the good doctor take care of him.

He knew just how to thrust, to listen to Sherlock's body, knew just what the right angle for his prostate was and yet managed to surprise him even then, which made most orgasms even more toe-curling. So it would never have occurred to him, that he would like being the one inside John, that John would like being the one being taken, and by that, taken care of. Because that was just how they were, and Sherlock Holmes, the man who normally leaves no possibility unthought-of, just this once didn't even think of proving this possibility improbable.

It was about three months after they'd officially become a couple, and about three and a half after they'd first slept together, when John came home from the surgery and Sherlock immediately knew something was wrong. In the first half minute that John stumbled into their flat, alarmingly pale and moving slowly towards the sofa Sherlock was currently curled up on, he deduced exactly what must have happened; but he still stood, guided John to sit down, curled protectively around him, kissed his temple and waited until the good doctor was ready to tell him what was wrong.

There'd been an attempted suicide that day, the young man who wanted to take his life would actually have been one of those to do it successfully, hadn't his fiancé burst into the room and knocked the gun out of his hand in the last second.

It was all a bit of a blur how she'd actually managed to safe him, but the bullet had only scratched his shoulder that way.

It all would have been a normal procedure, patching him up and sending him over to see someone of the psychiatric department, hadn't it been for the fact that the young man decided to confide in John while he was tending to his wound.

He'd only just recently been sent home from Iraq, half his left leg replaced by a prosthetic one and the memories still too fresh in his mind to return to anything akin to the life he'd led before.

He told John of his fears, his nightmares, of the anxiety that threatened to make him sick every time he saw a report on the news. He felt useless, his life without purpose and he couldn't focus on how he was even supposed to behave around his friends and family.

John had listened, like the good doctor he is, had kept himself together until his shift was over, but the same images kept flashing in front of his eyes over and over again; the gun in his bedside drawer, how much worse his nightmares had been before Sherlock came into his life, how he'd been prepared to give it all up but hadn't because he knew no one would even notice if he would've been brave enough.

Sherlock knew, and Sherlock soothed him, the best he could, the only way he knew how to, and not before long, John was reaching up, bringing their faces together, clashing their lips in a desperate kiss, twisting in Sherlock's lap so he was straddling his legs and holding him tight.

He held on to him like a lifeline, clawing at his clothes and trying to get closer still, licking into his mouth with a strangled moan.

Sherlock kept murmuring into the kiss, 'I love you's and 'I'm here John's, his hands a steady presence, massaging his back, his hips bucking up against his lover's.

Only when John growled "Fuck me," into the kiss and shifted, so that the bulge in his lover's pants was firmly pressed against his backside did Sherlock break the kiss with a gasp, looking at John incredulously.

"You… you want me on top of you, right…?" he asked, still catching his breath, and John looked up, his eyes incredibly dark with lust, his lips swollen and a look of utter desperation on his face that made Sherlock's heart skip a beat.

"I want you inside of me…" he ground out, "Please Sherlock, I need to feel you, god, I need you so bad," he half begged, half ordered, trying to bring their mouths back together.

Sherlock allowed him, because seriously, who was he to deny John a wish like that.

With shaking hands he pulled John's jumper and shirt over his head, kissing and sucking on his boyfriend's neck and twisting his nipples, trying to bait time so he could make up his mind. Not that he didn't want to do that for John, he just wasn't sure if he'd be able to.

When John growled on top of him and bucked against him impatiently he pushed him off his lap, and, ignoring his affronted whine, got up himself, offering his hand and pulling him along to their bedroom.

"I am not fucking you over the sofa," he growled into the hollow of John's throat when he pushed him up against the bedroom door, locking their mouths back together and lining up their hips with an insistent tug.

After snogging John forcefully for a couple of minutes and making him not notice how they lost the rest of their clothing in the process, he shoved a knee between his legs and spun him around, pushing him towards the bed.

"Just, fuck," John growled when his back hit the mattress, instantly reaching out for his love and making him land on top of him, "Just get on with it, Sherlock!"

Sherlock got back up onto his knees with a sly grin on his face and took a bottle of lube from the bedside table. He popped the cap open with his teeth and let one hand wander down John's middle, barely grazing his erection with his fingertips before lifting his hand away again and generously slicking up three fingers.

He bent down, twisting a nipple with his other hand, pressing his own erection against John's thigh and sucking back on his lover's lower lip. When John was properly distracted he let his hand wander between his cheeks, drawing circles around his entrance before shoving his index finger in up to the second knuckle. John gasped but was distracted from the burn by the sensory overload the rest of his body was subjected to and when Sherlock started pulling his finger out a little he pushed back against his hand.

Soon Sherlock was fucking John roughly with three fingers, grazing his prostate on every other trust and his love was throwing his head from side to side on the bed in ecstasy.

When Sherlock reached for his cock John swatted his hand away and gasped, pulling Sherlock closer by the shoulders and panting against his mouth, "Too much… If you keep this up I'll come before you're even inside of me," he licked his lips and swallowed hard, his voice rough and pleading when he looked Sherlock in the eyes, "Fuck me, I need you inside of me, now…"

Sherlock grinned down at him, making sure that John was watching him pump his cock leisurely a couple of times to slick himself up before bending down, nudging John's legs further apart and kissing him sweetly while entering him in one smooth thrust.

John whimpered, hooking his legs around Sherlock's waist and gripping his bicep tight, "Fuck," he groaned, "So full… Sherlock, I need, need you to…" his eyes were wide and he was clenching around Sherlock, minutely moving against him.

The detective cradled his bloggers head between his arms and spoke directly against his lips, pulling out ever so slightly, "God you're so tight John, so tight and hot and perfect, as if you were made for my cock… I'm going to fuck you so hard, I'm going to tear you apart and then I'm going to fix you again…" He thrust back in, closing his eyes for a second, moaning at the perfect feeling, "Mine… My John, mine" and with that, he started thrusting in earnest, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in in long, hard thrusts, angling his hips to rub against John's prostate on every go and sucking a large bruise onto his neck.

John was beyond words, making little mewling noises in the back of his throat every now and then, holding onto Sherlock's shoulders, his eyes squeezed shut in utter bliss.

When Sherlock took hold of his cock and measured the movement of his hand to his thrusts John's eyes flew open and he exploded with a cry of his lover's name.

Sherlock followed seconds after, John's name on his lips, buried deep within the man and his climax was wrung from him through the spasming of John's muscles around him.

He slumped forwards against John's chest, both of them panting against each other for several minutes, Sherlock's hands running idly through the splatters of cum on John's belly, his lips latching onto his collarbone to lick and suck until John's breathing returned to normal and he beamed down at his love.

"Fuck that was brilliant," he ran a hand over Sherlock's sweaty back and through his mussed curls, "Thank you, fuck you are brilliant… Thank you so much."

Sherlock got to his feet, holding out a hand towards John, a huge grin on his face. When they were standing nose to nose he whispered, "Thank you for letting me do this," before pulling John towards the shower.

Afterwards, when they lay cuddled up together, John's head resting on Sherlock's chest, long fingers stroking through his hair he tilted his head up, pressing a small kiss to plump lips, "Thank you for always being there for me, Sherlock. You really are everything."

The consulting detective hummed and returned the kiss, a little more forcefully, and held John tight against his body. "You still make me so much better, every day, John. I couldn't love you more."


End file.
